by Linnea May
Fuck. She still possesses me. I can’t get rid of this fucking obsession, not even after years of separation.
She tilts her head to the side, beaming up at me through those irresistible green eyes. “Yes, but what an honor! To have the famous Jayson Bowlan come by for a visit.”
Her eyelashes flutter nervously as she casts me a shy look, a sweet smile playing at the corner of her mouth. “I’m surprised you even found the time. You must be so busy. You’re so sought after.”
I nod, trying to sound modest when I reply. “Yes, things are going well, but never too well to visit an old friend.”
Old friend. That must be the understatement of the year, and I can see in her eyes that she agrees with me. We’re so much more than old friends, but she has only a small idea of the things that truly connect us on a deeper level. Her smile is less genuine and overcast by a subtle shadow of sadness.
“No need to be so humble, Mr. Bowlan,” she says. “You’re like a rock star, more than just a local celebrity. I’ve read all about it. They call you a magician, did you know?”
“I never liked the term.”
She shakes her head. “Neither do I. It’s so... naive.”
Our eyes meet in a silent understanding. It makes me wonder how much she might remember. There should be nothing left, no gnawing pain that’s been torturing her for so long. But even before she left for college back then, I kept seeing those hints in her eyes, those dark flickers that seem to speak of things she shouldn’t be able to recall.
That connection we share. Our bond is so unique, and it kills me that she doesn’t even know about it.
In fact, there are only very few people who do—and one of them just happens to emerge from the back room of the shop. Robert’s eyes widen just like hers when he sees me, but his welcome is not as warm as hers.
A crease appears between his thick eyebrows when he looks at me.
“Jayson,” he grunts. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
I lock him down with a warning gaze, silently reminding him to mind his place. I know he’d prefer for me to stay away from her, and he has every reason to do so. But he sure as hell won’t stop me from exchanging a few words with her, just to see how she’s doing. I need to know she’s doing okay. I need to know that things aren’t as bad as I fear them to be.
So far, I have not been reassured.
“I was in the area,” I lie, my gaze wandering back to her. “Just wanted to say hello to your daughter, since I heard she’s back in town.”
A coy smile scurries across her face, but it’s gone as soon as Robert plants himself next to her. His mere presence causes her to slouch and put a dimmer on her bright shining light. It drives me mad to witness it still, again. Nothing has changed. If anything, things seem to have gotten worse.
“So, you decided to work here after all?” I ask, clearly directing the question at her, but she’s not the one to respond. She’s just in the process of opening her mouth when Robert hurries to intervene.
“Yes, she will,” he says. “That’s always been the plan. For her to continue the family’s business. Ain’t that right, darling?”
He locks his arm around her shoulder, pulling her too close for comfort while she throws me a pained smile.
I want to jump between them, to rip her apart from his overprotective arm. I want to see that untainted smile again, the one she wore before her father entered the room, before she was reminded of the sad existence she’s forced to lead at his side.
I can’t let this happen. I shouldn’t.
The shop door opens again, announcing another customer. But I can tell that it must be a familiar face even before turning around. Robert’s face lights up instantly, and there’s a flash of recognition on her face as well.
And sure enough, the person entering the shop is no stranger, not to me either.
“Christopher!” Robert exclaims, letting go of his daughter to welcome the intruder.
A tall and slender man comes to a halt right next to me, dressed in a trench coat and a dark flat cap that hides his blond hair. He’s almost as tall as me, but still has to look up just a tad when his light blue eyes meet mine with visible disdain.
“Good to see you, Robert,” he says, taking off his hat and shaking Robert’s hand before he turns back to me. “Jayson. What a surprise.”
“He was in the area.” She repeats my lie, stepping closer, as if she wants to protect me.
She has always been sensitive to the resentment that poisons the air between me and both of these men, especially the latter.
But it never stopped her from caring for all of us. Or so I want to believe.
I watch as Christopher hugs her just like I did, lifting her up on her toes while enclosing her in a tight grip that sends fiery stabs through my jealous heart.
It’s hard to read her in regard to him; it always has been. She neither seems to mind nor care for his embrace, and I can’t help but notice that her eyes wander right back to me after he lets go of her.
Maybe it started in that very moment. That moment when she looked at me with those troubled eyes, sending an unspoken plea of help that wouldn’t really find its voice until much later.
But it may have started right then and there.
Maybe that’s when she became my Petal.
Chapter 26
Petal
This is the worst he’s ever done to me. I thought the spanking was bad. I thought being locked away in that cold, gray basement was bad. I thought being exposed and humiliated by him was bad.
But none of it compares to this agony. I’m trembling, tossed back and forth between feverish heat and the cold drops of sweat that run down my body in various places. Being denied an orgasm when I was expecting an imminent release, when my entire being was ready for it, the tension building up with such vicious power—it’s the most cruel thing he could ever do to me.
At first, I expect him to return right away, laughing at me as I lie there with my nipples pinched and my core dripping with desire while I squirm in need, begging him to put me out of my misery. I expected him to relish the sight for a few moments before he’d tell me what a good girl I was, asking me if I’d learned my lesson. I would nod and say yes as much as he wanted me to, as long as he’d just make it stop.
But he never came back. I don’t know how long I’ve been lying here, the pain in my nipples slowly receding to a warm afterthought, still throbbing, but quietly, while my center still yearns for his touch. It could have been minutes, maybe half an hour, maybe even an hour.
It’s been too long, that’s for sure.
I want to call for him, searching the ceiling above my head for cameras. He’s had one downstairs. I’m sure he’ll have them here, too. But just like in the basement, I fail to find any. They might be hidden in the light at the ceiling or at the top of the canopy bed, but if they are, they’ve been hidden masterfully.
And even if I found my voice to call out for him, what would I even say? He told me to call him master, but would I really find it within myself to do so? Does he deserve that name?
“Fuck, why do you care?” It’s just a low whisper, but the sound of my voice still sends chills down my spine.
I’m still breathing heavily, balancing at the edge of hyperventilation ever since he left the room. My craving for release has become so unbearable that it makes me sick and dizzy. It’s hard to keep my mind in check, even harder than it’s been all this time. I’ve felt like a crazy person ever since I woke up: lost and confused, with a memory loss so profound it can’t be anything but maddening.
Sanity has become a luxury to me, something I’ve fought for every waking moment. I’ve wanted something to hold on to, something to give me the strength to live through this strange hell.
But now, as time passes with my body bound, stricken with unfulfilled desire and pain, I feel myself losing the will and power to fight. I’m too worn out, too tired from the exertion he’s putting me through, too lost in a
sea of uncertainty and disappointment.
My field of vision narrows, focusing on the only other living object in this room. A dark green stem with thorns, topped with a vibrant blossom in bright colors. It’s odd to think of the white rose as company, but I still perceive it that way. The petals haven’t wilted one bit since I first saw it, still looking so full of life, so exhilarant.
And so familiar.
The flower refused to answer my questions earlier, but it appears to be more talkative now. It can’t possibly be, but I feel like I can hear it whisper, like it’s trying to tell me something.
We know each other. I’ve met this flower before. I’ve held it in my hands before, maybe not this exact one, but one of its kind.
But I was in a different place then. A place that felt like a prison just like this bedroom.
A familiar place, filled with dark memories and compulsion.
I close my eyes, allowing my mind to wander. I don’t guide, nor do I stop the images as they pop up. It’s terrifying to follow the path that my tormented self chooses. It’s terrifying to see the crack in the wall as I approach it, knowing I may be about to see things I’ve had no access to until now. And maybe that was for the better. Maybe that wall has been erected to protect me? Maybe I should leave it, turn around, and deal with the anguish that awaits me out in the real world.
No. I can’t. I don’t want to.
I want to peek through the cracks. I want to follow it into the dark that harbors my secrets. His punishment weakened the resistance that’s been planted somewhere deep inside me. Now that it’s depleted, this may be my only chance for answers.
I follow the promise, my shoulders up to my ears, as if protecting myself against an imminent attack when I lean forward to peer through the tiny crack that runs through the metaphoric wall inside my head.
At first, I don’t see anything, but I feel something. I feel disappointment, the sensation of being robbed of something I crave so badly that it hurts. It’s a similar state to the one he left me in, my entire being filled with a desire for something. But it’s not just pure lust that drives this yearning; there’s more behind it. There’s intimacy, closeness, companionship.
Love.
I ache to love, and to be loved. But it’s taken from me. There are shadows moving in front of me, silhouettes of people, tall and strong people. Men. There are at least two, maybe three, but one of them towers above the others. I don’t see his face. He’s just a black ghost like the others, but his paramount stature alone is so intimidating that I’m frightened by it even now, when he’s nothing but the shadow of a memory that was taken from me.
I feel drawn to one of the other silhouettes, a smaller one, radiating warmth and comfort. He’s spreading his arms, calling for me. I’m smiling as a soothing feeling washes over me, almost like an embrace. A hand is reached out to me, but when I step closer to take it, the figure dissolves in front of me, the contours losing shape as they slowly dismantle into nothing but a vague shadow that gets cast away a moment later. Like black powder that’s being blown away, the figure disappears, leaving nothing behind but the feeling of loss and hopelessness. And as soon as he’s gone, another figure steps into his place. The tall one, the one who’s been scaring me from the very first moment.
He’s the one who’s preventing me from having what I want, what I crave. He’s the one who forbids it. There’s nothing but fear and repulsion when I look at him, the opposite of what I was feeling with the person who dissipated.
Who is he? And who is this third person, watching us? I turn around to face him, trying to get a better understanding of his contours, his shape, his character. But unlike the other two, he remains hidden in shadows, never stepping forward, never showing himself like the others were. He doesn’t appall me, nor does he lure me with a warm promise.
He just watches.
And that alone is chilling to the bone.
Chapter 27
J
“You’re back.”
Malia looks up from her tablet, squinting as the sun blinds her. I found her sitting on the deck facing the sea, a fresh breeze greeting me as I stepped outside. The air tastes of fall, announcing the coming end of Indian Summer. The leaves have changed, immersing the town in a sea of orange, red, and yellow while people still walk around in short sleeves, pretending that summer hasn’t ended yet. It’s still high season for tourism, and the masses of people meandering along the cliff walk right in front of my house doesn’t seem to recede. If anything, they’ve been coming more now that it’s no longer blazing hot outside.
There’s a vast garden and high fences shielding us from their unsuspecting looks, but it still fills me with unease to hide my dark secret this close to public life.
“I had a feeling you didn’t want me inside the house,” Malia says. “Isn’t that why you sent me out for a walk?”
There’s a reproachful undertone in her voice that I don’t care for, so I decide to ignore her as I step out on the deck, my gaze fixed on the ocean in front of us. The sea is wild today, an upheaval brought by the strong winds that chase colorful leaves off the trees, blowing away the last remnants of summer. A family with two young children strolls along the cliff walk, passing our gates and casting envious looks up to us. When one of the children, a boy of maybe six or seven years, jumps up and down and excitedly points his finger at me, his mother hurries to grab him by the arm. She doesn’t waste a single look at me as she hastily pulls her son away from the high fences, lowering her head in shame as she scolds him. The beauty and fame of this area is what drew me here years ago, when I bought this house as a second home for myself. I never imagined myself living here full time, and the high frequency of tourists passing my property every single day is the main reason for that.
“Jayson.”
I’m startled by Malia’s voice, and by the fact that she calls me by my name. She avoids addressing me as much as she can. It’s something I’ve noticed from the start. My eyes trail over my shoulder, meeting her black eyes while she looks at me with her head tilted to the side.
“Is she okay?” It’s all she ever wants to know: if her friend is doing okay. That’s why she’s here, after all.
I nod. “She’s upstairs now. I think we might take a big step today.”
A slight frown appears on Malia’s face. “Did you hurt her?”
“You know I can’t tell you that.”
“Does she need anything to eat?”
“Not for a while,” I say, shaking my head. “I’ll be back with her soon.”
Worry laces Malia’s expression, but she refrains from adding anything to the conversation. I’m pretty sure that it’s not only our agreement that keeps her from asking too many questions, but also her own fear. She’s afraid of some of the answers she may receive. As she should be.
“Did you hear about the body they found?” she asks, out of the blue.
I furrow my eyebrows in question when I turn, taking a seat in one of the lounge chairs next to her and twirling my hand, beckoning her to elaborate.
“So, you didn’t?” she says, arching her eyebrows in surprise. “They found another dead girl, out near Lake Nippenicket. It was the one they announced missing about half a year ago.”
I press my lips together, understanding where she’s going with this. “The Bridgewater murderer?”
Malia nods. “Yes, they think it was him. Again.”
She sighs, swallowing hard before she adds, “I’m pretty sure that Christopher is working on the case. And once Robert goes to the police...”
“They’ll believe she’s another victim of that bastard,” I conclude her thought.
“Yes,” Malia says. “Don’t you think that’s what they’ll believe? Now that there was another discovery? It’s always been like that... a girl goes missing, nothing happens for months, and when her body is found, another one disappears. It’s the gruesome routine of the Bridgewater murderer.”
I growl in anger as I nod in agree
ment.
“That monster,” Malia whispers. “That would be his fourth victim. The girl from the lake.”
She looks at me. “The police have asked you about him before, haven’t they?”
I nod. “Yes. They hoped I’d be able to tell them something that could lead to solving the case.”
“But... you couldn’t?” She’s careful in asking this question, hugging the tablet in front of her chest as if she were scared of the answer. Her tension eases visibly when I shake my head no.
My profession forces me to harbor a lot of people’s darkest secrets, some of which I’d love to forget. It’s my burden to carry the terrible truths that my clients want to leave behind, and part of a job that made me rich and famous. But as ugly and horrific as some of those erased memories were, a sin this bad has never been shared with me. So far.
“Well, if they believe that she’s been taken by that guy, it’s all the better for us,” I say, receiving a shocked look from Malia. “It would set them on the wrong track.”
She shrugs, looking unconvinced. “They’ll still want to talk to us.”
“I know.”
“Robert must have contacted the police by now,” she goes on. “He said he’d wait till tonight, but you and I know him well enough to realize he won’t wait that long. Especially with Christopher on the job.”
“We’ll be ready for them,” I try to reassure her. “We’ve practiced. And there’s no reason why they suspect any of us to be involved. You’re her best friend. And you did let Robert know that you’re worried about her, right?”
Malia nods hastily. “Yes, of course I did! I even told him to call me as soon as possible if he hears anything, and that I’d check for her, too.”
She bites her lower lip, turning away from me and staring out to the sea instead. Her black locks dance across her forehead, poking the lines that concern draws on her face.
“I’m her best friend,” she repeats. “But who are you?”
It’s odd to see how much her question impacts me. It feels like a giant clamp closing around my chest, tightening suddenly and evoking thoughts and emotions I haven’t had in a while.